Islay and Whisky
1
48 Car & Travel July/August 2007 T NOTEBOOK And We’ll Take a Cup o’ Kindness Yet by Terence Baker T hat people wielding an obsession travel to New York City is nothing new. It is here that their events are held—35,000 obsessed marathon runners on the first Sunday of November; 1.2 million diehard car fans for the New York International Auto Show in April, to cite two examples—but recently I met a crowd who raise the idée fixe shown by these two“driven”groups to a new level—single-malt whisky aficionados. Like most people with a passion, when they are near its (spring-water) source, a glazed look forms in their eyes. Two cases: Michael Jackson, not the singer but a chaplain from Sandy, Utah, came to New York (Whisky Live is held at Chelsea Piers) three days before a relative’s baptism, specifically to at- tend the event.A jovial gentleman,he was ready to talk whisky and nothing but.I mention my interest in the Scot- tish Inner Hebridean island of Islay, and I see, immediately, that I have spoken of a place dear to his heart. Later, when I utter the name of Northern Ireland, he murmurs gently, “Ah, yes, Bushmills,” evoking another memory of a past distillery visit, although he was there to drink single-malt whiskey, not single-malt whisky, which can come only from Scot- land. And here was Mahesh Patel, an At- lanta-based property developer and whisky collector, who also flew into town to pay homage. “I buy two bottles,” he gushed. “I share one and save the other.” Scotland has approximately 80 single- malt distilleries, and seven are on that small isle called Islay (pronounced “eye-larr”). Of the murmurs I repeatedly heard in the event hall, the most enthusiastic one was of adoration for this island. I went there once, during a summer, and it was scenic and sunny (the result of Gulf Stream currents) but also, and less than 10 minutes later, bleak and blustery. (My father was evacu- ated out of London during the Blitz of World War II and ended up on the nearby island of Tiree, where he almost perished, not from bombs, but from pneumonia.) Hereabouts, the winds often blow strong, as do run the peaty streams, and it all makes for world- class whisky. Islay is two hours by ferry from the mainland, measures 240 square miles and has a population of only 4,000. Many are either involved in whisky production or tourism, the two industries now skipping along merrily hand in hand. Whisky trails are on offer, and Bowmore, a distillery in the island’s center-west, last year opened five guest cottages, the former homes of mashers and barrel-makers. “The cot- tages come with all the smells that whisky drinkers cherish, plus a bottle,” Bowmore’s Karen Murray tells me. On the other side of the equation, sales of Scotch whisky to the United States, the main importer, hit $400 million in 2006, according to the Scotch Whisky Association. One of the others joys of Islay, and many other Western Scotland destinations, are its glorious beaches. Yes, that’s right, its beaches. When the sun does shine (and it does), the sand is a glorious white, the sea turquoise and the occasional palm tree not unknown. (Remember the scene in the film Highlander, with Christopher Lambert and Sean Connery, in which the two ac- tors race along a gorgeous beach? Well, the director did not pretend Tahiti was Scotland; it actually is Scotland, in particu- lar the Silver Sands of Morar on the main- land.) That said, I would advise not taking the Polynesian comparison too far. Test the water’s temperature with a toe and altogether avoid swimming on the isle’s Atlantic Coast. One delightful, safe strand is Loch a Chnuic, also known as Knock Bay, which very conveniently is adjacent to three of Islay’s most famous distilleries— Ardbeg, Lagavulin and Laphroaig. More advice: Swim first; sip after- wards. A drier idea is to visit the island’s handful of standing stones, which date to approximately 2000 B.C.My favorite is inland at Finlaggan, a former seat of the Lords of the Isles. Back at Chelsea Piers, I discover something that in my mind narrows the gap somewhat between these single-malt fans and those aforementioned marathon run- ners. It is a bottle from the distillery of Caol Ila,perhaps the Holy Grail of Islay whisky,and it is Michael G.C.Urquhart,director of whisky producer Gordon & MacPhail, who kindly introduces me to this subject of worship.“It doesn’t come any better,”he proclaims. I mention to some attendees that I had enjoyed a drop of it.“Where?” they instant- ly demand. And when I tell them—I also mention there was only a wee dram left— they are gone, moving swiftly (like mara- thon runners, like Islay rivers) in the general direction in which still my finger points. Off to savor their obsession. Terence Baker is travel editor of this magazine. Of the murmurs I repeatedly heard, the most enthusiastic one was of adoration for this Inner Hebridean island.
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Transcript of Islay and Whisky
48 Car & Travel July/August 2007
TN
OTE
BO
OK And We’ll Take a Cup o’ Kindness Yet
b y Te r e n c e B a k e r
That people wielding an obsession travel to New York City is nothing new. It is here that their events are held—35,000
obsessed marathon runners on the first Sunday of November; 1.2 million diehard car fans for the New York International Auto Show in April, to cite two examples—but recently I met a crowd who raise the idée fixe shown by these two “driven” groups to a new level—single-malt whisky aficionados.
Like most people with a passion, when they are near its (spring-water) source, a glazed look forms in their eyes. Two cases: Michael Jackson, not the singer but a chaplain from Sandy, Utah, came to New York (Whisky Live is held at Chelsea Piers) three days before a relative’s baptism, specifically to at-tend the event. A jovial gentleman, he was ready to talk whisky and nothing but. I mention my interest in the Scot-tish Inner Hebridean island of Islay, and I see, immediately, that I have spoken of a place dear to his heart. Later, when I utter the name of Northern Ireland, he murmurs gently, “Ah, yes, Bushmills,” evoking another memory of a past distillery visit, although he was there to drink single-malt whiskey, not single-malt whisky, which can come only from Scot-land. And here was Mahesh Patel, an At-lanta-based property developer and whisky collector, who also flew into town to pay homage. “I buy two bottles,” he gushed. “I share one and save the other.”
Scotland has approximately 80 single-malt distilleries, and seven are on that small isle called Islay (pronounced “eye-larr”). Of the murmurs I repeatedly heard in the event hall, the most enthusiastic one was of adoration for this island. I went there once, during a summer, and it was scenic and sunny (the result of Gulf Stream currents) but also, and less than 10 minutes later,
bleak and blustery. (My father was evacu-ated out of London during the Blitz of World War II and ended up on the nearby island of Tiree, where he almost perished, not from bombs, but from pneumonia.) Hereabouts, the winds often blow strong, as do run the peaty streams, and it all makes for world-class whisky.
Islay is two hours by ferry from the mainland, measures 240 square miles and
has a population of only 4,000. Many are either involved in whisky production or tourism, the two industries now skipping along merrily hand in hand. Whisky trails are on offer, and Bowmore, a distillery in the island’s center-west, last year opened five guest cottages, the former homes of mashers and barrel-makers. “The cot-tages come with all the smells that whisky drinkers cherish, plus a bottle,” Bowmore’s Karen Murray tells me. On the other side of the equation, sales of Scotch whisky to the United States, the main importer, hit $400 million in 2006, according to the Scotch Whisky Association.
One of the others joys of Islay, and many other Western Scotland destinations, are its glorious beaches. Yes, that’s right, its beaches. When the sun does shine (and it does), the sand is a glorious white, the sea
turquoise and the occasional palm tree not unknown. (Remember the scene in the film Highlander, with Christopher Lambert and Sean Connery, in which the two ac-tors race along a gorgeous beach? Well, the director did not pretend Tahiti was Scotland; it actually is Scotland, in particu-lar the Silver Sands of Morar on the main-land.) That said, I would advise not taking the Polynesian comparison too far. Test the
water’s temperature with a toe and altogether avoid swimming on the isle’s Atlantic Coast. One delightful, safe strand is Loch a Chnuic, also known as Knock Bay, which very conveniently is adjacent to three of Islay’s most famous distilleries— Ardbeg, Lagavulin and Laphroaig. More advice: Swim first; sip after-wards. A drier idea is to visit the island’s handful of standing stones, which date to approximately 2000 B.C. My favorite is inland at Finlaggan, a former seat of the Lords of the Isles.
Back at Chelsea Piers, I discover something that in my mind narrows the gap somewhat between these single-malt fans and those aforementioned marathon run-ners. It is a bottle from the distillery of Caol Ila, perhaps the Holy Grail of Islay whisky, and it is Michael G.C. Urquhart, director of whisky producer Gordon & MacPhail, who kindly introduces me to this subject of worship. “It doesn’t come any better,” he proclaims.
I mention to some attendees that I had enjoyed a drop of it. “Where?” they instant-ly demand. And when I tell them—I also mention there was only a wee dram left—they are gone, moving swiftly (like mara-thon runners, like Islay rivers) in the general direction in which still my finger points. Off to savor their obsession.
Terence Baker is travel editor of this magazine.
Of the murmurs I repeatedly heard, the most enthusiastic one was of adoration for this Inner Hebridean island.
